


Liminal Spaces

by layersofsilence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Some angst, SteveBucky Secret Santa 2017, bucky is meant to be a 24/7 working man and yet i manage to not deal with his job much, death and the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence
Summary: A prolific assassin whose career spanned decades, however brainwashed, was always going to cause controversy when it came time for him to try and enter the afterlife. So, a compromise: he is asked to operate a liminal space, to help lost souls to find the crossing-place. No going out and gathering souls, no keeping souls, and no kicking souls out.It might be lonely work, but James is fine. James is fine, and then Steve Rogers, all blue-eyed sparking passion, marches into his liminal space.





	Liminal Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chanolay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanolay/gifts).



> for stucky secret santa 2017! this is my gift to Chanolay who uh, asked for protective preserum steve, hurt/comfort, and holiday fluff....,,...i wrote the hurt/comfort-y holidayish fluff and then i tried to build up a situation that would lead to the hurt and then this exploded. it's the only explanation. i meant for this to be 5k DX
> 
> (she also prompted protective fake relationship, which turned into protective real relationship, but shh)
> 
> i hope you like this, olivia. here’s hoping you have a very happy new year <3

James is not sure how long he has been in this room. Long enough to be able to piece together his fragmented memories: torture and mission reports and their corresponding missions and weapons and then, before all of that, a hazy life that had been hard but at least happy, before years and decades of emptiness that are only now coming back to him.

The memories had come back to him gently, which is a thing to be grateful for; the room is kind to him, which is another. When he feels small, the room brings itself in around him in something that feels absurdly like an embrace. When he is restless the room expands to a ridiculous size and offers bright splashes of colour on the walls even as it keeps him here. It makes James smile. With all the memories crowding through his mind, he is not sure he deserves it.

A deep voice says his name, and a door materialises. James thinks, possibly, that it is a replica of the door on his childhood home. Another kindness to offer him courage in the act of opening it. When he looks again at the walls they are a shade of sunshine yellow that is irrefutably supportive.

“Barnes, James Buchanan,” the deep voice repeats, and it sounds a little more impatient this time. James takes a breath and opens the door. As he steps outside he pats the doorframe gently, and hopes the room understands. The wood yields under his hand in a decidedly un-wood-like manner.

The room outside his room – or, at least, the room that he’s been in all this time – is different. Clean and utilitarian, full of sharp lines and hard edges. There are five people around the table that sweeps around the centre of the room, and all of them have their eyes on James. It makes him step more carefully as he makes his way to the chair in front of them.

There was a time, probably, that James would have sought to fill the silence. Now he just sits and waits.

“Do you know why you’re here?” one of the women asks him.

“I died,” James says, because he did. It had been a clean death, at least from an assassin he’d trained once and shot twice. He’s glad, no matter how twisted and wrong it is, that it was her.

“And?” the man sat at the middle of the table asks. The eyebrow over his eyepatch raises, which is distinctly strange.

His tone is short and impatient and James can’t help but to match it. “And you’re probably weighing my soul or something, I don’t know.” They probably are, and he’s probably supposed to try and make a good impression on them. “How long was I in there?” he asks, in a softer tone.

“Time doesn’t work well here,” the same woman as before – short, neat black hair and sharp brown eyes, with efficiency practically oozing out of her posture and attitude – says. “But,” she admits, “it took us – a while, to talk your case through.”

“What mattered, we agreed in the end,” the other woman at the table says. “It wasn’t you in control of what you did.”

“I know,” James says, because he does, now. “But I still did it.” There is a surprised sort of silence around the table, filled with subtle raised eyebrows and, interestingly, some gentle easing of postures. James wiggles his metal hand a little, lets its quiet whirring fill the otherwise-silent room. “My hands on the trigger.”

“We came to a compromise,” the first woman says, and gets up to step around the table. “Come with me?”

Possibly against his better judgement, James rises to position himself behind the woman, who nods at him and twists a hand through the air. A door materialises in front of her, and she opens it to pull him through before.

“There was…some backlash, and the thought of letting you cross over,” she says as they walk down a clean old-fashioned corridor with a shining wood floor and white-painted walls. “But there was just as much at the thought of casting you out. You were a very divisive case.”

“Cast out?” James asks. 

“It’s rare,” the woman says. “Very rare. But not unheard of. Some souls will change. Some wander for – millennia, before we can let them in.”

Wandering for millennia sounds like the least James deserves for what he’s done. Before he can decide on whether or not to tell the woman this and possibly condemn himself, she twists her hand again and another door materialises. Unlike the other door, which had appeared as though it was simply popping into existence whole, this time the door handle materialises first, and from there lines spread like cracks to reveal a doorway fitted snugly into the wall like it’d always been there.

“This was our compromise,” the woman says as she opens the door and beckons James forward. The room is clean and white, with no furniture to speak of.

“This?” James asks. Sitting in one room for the rest of eternity sounds worse than wandering. Then again, that’s probably the point.

“This is just a blank slate,” the woman says. “A liminal space currently not in use. Souls need help,” she specifies, at the confusion James knows must be on his face. “Finding us, finding the crossing-place, it can be hard. We’re trying to open more places like this so they can find us faster. But, of course, opening more places means we need more people to run them.”

“I’d be in charge of the room?” James asks, trying to wrap his mind around this.

“Oh no,” the woman says with a light exhale of a laugh. “If you accept, you could change it to whatever you want – a forest, a train station, a café, you name it. It’d be whatever you wanted it to be.”

“And what would I do?” James asks.

“Most souls with unfinished business need a liminal space,” the woman says. “You can only find the crossing-place if you want to cross, you see. But the doors to a space like this can be found almost anywhere. From here, you’d be helping souls come to terms with the situations. And once they’re settled they can move on to the crossing-place.”

“I – could do that,” James says. He knows, he _knows_ , with a knowledge too sharp to linger on, that nothing can make up for what he has done, but this could be a start. Atonement.

“Good,” the woman says, and her eyes are warm. “Oh, good. Thank you, Barnes.”

“James,” James says.

“Maria, then,” the woman – Maria, now – says. When she smiles the serious smoothness of her face divides itself up into small wrinkles, and the expression suits her far better.

Smiles still feel unfamiliar on James’s face, but it feels even ruder to let Maria smile and not offer some sort of response.

“Here,” Maria says, taking a piece of paper out of her pocket. It is unwrinkled and unblemished and decidedly too large to fit into a pocket without folding. “Just sign there,” she adds, tapping the aforementioned there with a pen.

 _I do declare myself the guardian of this liminal space until otherwise decided_ , the paper says, quite simply. James signs, and the messy scrawl he hasn’t seen since before he’d been plunged into ice feels a little like coming home.

“Make yourself at home,” Maria says. She blows on the ink, and that must do something because abruptly, James can feel the room – the liminal space, whatever – in his _head_. It’s not invasive, he realises after the initial moment of panic. It’s more – waiting. Something he can control.

“Is this what you meant when you said it can be whatever I want?” he asks, pointing at his head and hoping the message gets across. If his voice is a little hazy, well, he can’t see how that’s his fault, really.

“Yes,” Maria says. “Try something – imagine a scenario. The room should follow.”

James closes his eyes and tries. He isn’t entirely sure what he ends up doing – he tries to imagine a place, but it’s muddled and strange and unspecific. He’s thinking more about an emotion than a place, which is why he’s surprised when he hears Maria huff out an impressed, “Huh.”

“Wha–” he starts, as he opens his eyes, and then falls silent as he realises what Maria was reacting to.

The room is not white anymore. There isn’t a scrap of white in it anymore. Instead it looks distinctly like an upscale pub one might find somewhere in the countryside, sturdy tables and a chairs and a bar at the far end, all honeyed warm wood. Sunlight dances in through windows that offer views that are somehow both bright and indistinct. It feels like a place that James has been in many times, even though he knows he never has.

“What’s this?” he asks, daring to trail a hand against the nearest tabletop. The grain of the wood seems to ripple under his fingertips.

“This is the most impressive first attempt at imposition I’ve ever seen,” Maria says thoughtfully. She raps on a table and it lets out a satisfying knocking noise.

“I like this,” James says tentatively, poking gently at the shining new space inside his head. The tables seem to glow a little brighter. “This is what you meant? When you said it can be whatever I want?”

“This is exactly what I meant,” Maria says, wandering over to the bar. “I expected you to need more practice, though.”

This room is different from the other one he’d stayed in. That one had seemed to be independent, intelligent, if benign. This one responds to him in a way that is entirely different, more like an unwieldy strange new limb.

“Once you get more people in here, it gets harder to change major things,” Maria says. “You might be able to, I don’t know, bring in more chairs, or food and drink for the bar, but you couldn’t change the entire room to a train station, if that was something you wanted. And once people start coming in I very much doubt you’ll get the chance to have it empty again, so be sure that this is the shape you want it in.”

James starts to will the room to change, at that, just to try out a train station. He end up with a strange and muddled attempt that looks something like Grand Central as it had looked in the 20s and 30s. He keeps pushing – brings in a forest, an open road, a living room – but he keeps returning to that first bar-slash-pub. And as much as Maria says nothing during all of this, he knows that both of them would agree that this shape is his best. His forest is blurry in the details and the road stretches on long enough to be slightly terrifying.

“Want a drink?” James asks, somewhat unsurely.

Maria blinks, but then shrugs. “I mean, sure. Why not, right? Red wine, please.”

James makes his way over to the bar and tries to concentrate on the prospect of a bottle of red wine. And, sure enough, when he gets there a single bottle is waiting for him under the bar.

“Heads up,” he offers, and grabs for a couple of glasses. He doesn’t realise that they shouldn’t be there until they’re already in his hand. He’s getting used to this thing, he thinks dryly, and pours Maria a glass.

Her eyebrows go up as she takes a sip. “Cheers,” she says. “That’s…actually really good.”

James takes a sip of his own and has to concur. The room has good taste.

“Expect Nick to pay you a visit,” Maria says as she drains her glass. “He’ll lay the job out a bit more clearly for you. I’m more of the imposition expert. Then the souls will start coming in.”

“Got it,” James says, and Maria gives him another nod.

“I’ll drop by,” she says, and smiles tentatively as she leaves. 

James can make other rooms that branch off from the first one, he finds while he’s waiting for this Nick to pay him a visit. He makes himself a sparse empty room with a bedroll in it and a window that lets in slivers of light. He doesn’t need to sleep but he’s glad to find that he can, and wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later feeling more rested and refreshed than he can remember feeling for decades. Starlight is shining through the window of his room, but when he re-enters the main room it’s still filled with sunlight.

He’s only just sat down behind the bar when the lines of the door reappear in the wall, slightly to the right of where Maria had left, and the eyepatch man from the middle of the table steps into the room. He stops where he is and looks around.

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” he says finally, and then strides over to sit at the bar.

“Drink?” James asks, because it seems polite. The man hesitates and then shrugs.

“What the hell, sure,” he says. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

James concentrates, and one pops up right in front of Nick. James could swear his mouth twitches upwards when he drinks it.

“I’m Nick Fury,” he says once he’s put the glass back down. “You’ve agreed to be the guardian of the liminal space.” His way of speaking was making something a statement that somehow urged a response.

“Yes,” James says.

“Let me break this down for you,” Fury says. James is infinitely pleased that he’d gotten Fury’s last name, because even thinking about him as Nick seems egregiously familiar. “Some souls need help moving on. They come in. See that door? That’s the one they’ll come in from, and that’s the only one they can leave out of. They can open the door as much as they want but it’s always going to lead them wherever they want. Your job is to get them to move past wherever they want and make them want to go to our crossing-place, where we deal with them.”

“Okay,” James says, when Fury pauses.

“One thing,” Fury says, “you get to use your own discretion is how long folk get to stay. Some of them are going to take a fucking while. But the longer someone stays the more we’ll be on your ass about them, you get me?”

“Sure,” James says.

“Good. And these are three rules, hard and fast: No going out and gathering souls. No keeping souls for yourself. Everyone faces judgement. And no kicking souls out. That’s not your decision to make, understand?”

“Yeah, I got it,” James says, and then screws up his courage and asks, “Is it nice? To cross over?” Fury only raises an eyebrow, so James forges on, pretending he isn’t stumbling over his words. “I mean, that’s the first thing they’re going to ask. And I want to tell them the truth.”

Fury seems to soften slightly, at that. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s the stuff their dreams are made of.”

James lets the silence between them settle before he breaks it again with a, “Thanks.”

Apparently this is all Fury needs, because he nods once and stands up. “Good luck, Barnes,” he says, and then he leaves, just like that.

James is not entirely sure what to do with himself, so he waits. Maria had promised a fairly quick influx of souls, but the door remains stubbornly closed and silent, and the bar is quiet. It feels like it’s waiting. James is just wondering whether something’s gone wrong when the door is pushed open. Of course it is a young girl who comes in first, James thinks. She cannot be older than seven, and he can see her soul within the lines of her body, swirling in confusion.

“Hi,” he says. She looks at him with vague suspicion in her eyes.

“I’m lost,” she says.

“I’m here to help lost people,” is all James can think to say. The girl’s eyes narrow sceptically at this, and James cannot blame her.

“Where am I?” she asks.

James does not have the slightest idea how to tell a small girl that she’s dead. He possibly should have asked Fury or Maria how the fuck he was meant to go about this.

“Where were you?” he asks in response. The girl’s eyes narrow even further and more distrustfully at this non-answer, which James has to admit is a fairly reasonable response on her part.

“At the park,” she says. “I walked too far.” There are tears in her eyes, all of a sudden. It is possible that there was once a time that James would have felt qualified to handle a young crying girl. This is not that time.

“What happened then?”

“Something hit me,” she said, and her lower lip wobbles. “Where’s my Mom?”

“I’m sorry,” James says, and comes around the counter to sit in front of her. “You had to leave her.”

“You’re lying,” the girl says, her voice even more viciously wobbly now. “She was just behind me.”

James still does not have the slightest idea of what to say. The girl just looks at him, for more aching seconds, and then runs to the door as the tears spill over. James tries to follow, but all he can see is a rolling fog, and its message is clear: that world is not for you any longer. _No going out and gathering souls_ , Fury had said. James does not want to fuck up this early in the game.

He leaves the door open, and the girl comes back very shortly. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her nose is running.

“They didn’t see me,” she says, as James pulls a tissue box up and offers it to her. When she only looks at him he takes it upon himself to wipe her face dry, and she does not resist. “They didn’t _see me_ ,” she repeats, and this time her voice is more of a wail, edging towards loudness.

“That world is not for you anymore,” James murmurs, and pulls her close. Her previous mistrust seems to have, if not disappeared, then at least abated in the face of her desire to be touched. She nuzzles into him and he lets her plant her damp face in his neck and doesn’t even bother to pretend that she is the only one who feels better because of it. He does not remember the last time he has had a hug.

“Why not?” she asks.

“You died,” James says, and hopes that honesty is the kindest path. “Your time ran out.”

“I’m still here,” she says a little defiantly.

“Your time here just started,” James says. “But you have to cross over first.”

“Cross over?”

“Yeah,” James says. “You can’t stay here forever. It’s nice on the other side.”

“Why aren’t you there, if it’s so nice?”

“Someone needs to help people like you find the crossing place,” James points out.

There is a long silence where the two of them simply look at each other, interrupted only by the door opening again, this time letting an old man enter. When James has looked his fill at the newcomer and returns his gaze to the girl in front of him her eyes are still focused on him. Her gaze is bright and sharp and warmly brown.

“How do I get to the crossing place?” she asks, finally.

“That door,” James says.

“That door goes to the park,” the girl says.

“That door goes where you want it to go,” James promises. “If you want it to take you to the crossing place it will.”

The girl pulls away from him and stands alone, for a moment, suspended between James and the door, and then she goes to open it again. James does not see any difference in the fog outside the door, but the girl must, because she looks back once and then steps out. The door closes behind her, and James – feels abruptly alone again, as the only person who’s touched him gently in years disappears. He prides himself on being clever, and he is quick to catch onto what this job entails. It will not be as gentle as he thought, if he cares about every person who comes through.

The old man sits alone at a table, and for a selfish instant James wants to take refuge in the bedroom. He stands up instead. “Hey there,” he murmurs, as he approaches the old man’s table near the window. The guy nods at him. “Can I help you?”

~*~

Another person comes in while James is talking to the old man. And then another, and another. The pub grows to accommodate them.

“Got any rooms?” a tired old woman asks. James pokes at the wall and makes one, and then thinks better of it and makes a corridor with a row of them. They get labelled BEDROOMS quickly, and filled up just as fast. James starts thinking of his liminal space as an inn, rather than a bar or a pub or a club.

Nobody actually needs food or sleep – they’re dead, after all – but it’s comforting, those careworn engrained old routines that people had cycled through to stay alive, when they’d still belonged in that world.

“How are you?” Maria asks when she comes back as promised. It’s been a while, as far as James can tell, long enough that he’s managed to wean himself off both food and sleep, which is possible when you’re a soul and not a body.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says. “Have you been getting the people I’ve been sending?”

“Oh, yeah,” Maria says. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re not entirely lazy, but it’s a noticeable increase.”

“Can they see, when they cross over?”

“See?”

“Like, back. To –” James wiggles a hand, hopes the message gets across, “– Earth. Where they came from. The people they left.”

“Oh,” Maria says, “yeah, yeah, they can, if that’s something keeping someone back –”

“Yeah, Alicia over there –” James starts, but Maria shakes her head.

“Don’t tell me about them.”

“Oh,” James falters. “Okay." He's torn between staying with Maria and going down to tell people that they can move forward, but Maria solves the problem by straightening up and dusting herself off in a rather unnecessary move, considering the state of the place.

"I'll be off, then," she says. "Better go do my job, I guess. See you in another few years.”

“Guess so,” James says after her. It’s been a few years, then. He has either become very bad at keeping track of time, or time runs strangely here. He could believe both explanations. A guy named Wade picks up the glass Maria had left behind and downs what’s left of her drink.

~*~

When James had been young, in his mid-teens maybe, Grand Hotel had come out. And he’d gone to see it three times, all those glittering glamorous larger-than-life figures on that larger-than-life screen, caught up in their dramas and their celebrations and their disappointments. At the time, he’d identified almost aggressively with Greta Garbo – _I want to be alone_ she’d said on an sigh as she leaned melodramatically against a doorway, and as a melodramatic teenager with three sisters himself he connected with that. But more and more, now, his mind returns to that old man in the hotel lobby who barely got a shot in before the camera sweeps past him, preoccupied with other people, other stories. _People come,_ he’d said, at the beginning and the end, bookending the stories. _People go. Nothing ever changes_.

People come and people go. It was something James had known would happen since that first time it had happened, with the little girl who’d given him a hug and then a farewell. He hasn’t ever seen anyone after they leave, but then, he’d expected that one as well. If he hadn’t quite been able to estimate the loneliness that’d come with job – well, that’s probably his own fault, anyway. And, well, he’s not stupid and he doesn’t think Nick Fury or Maria are either. If he’d known the job would be lonely then so did they, and they’d still given it to him. It was still a punishment.

So James is actually fairly good at managing to keep his distance, or at least pretending to. Steve is not – okay, to James’s credit, Steve is not immediately a curveball, or a deviation from the norm, or whatever people call it these days. He’s just another guy, slightly smaller than usual and with much brighter blue eyes than usual, who is understandably angry about being dead.

“I need to go back,” are the first words he says to Bucky, both hands flat on the wood of the bar and leaning forward like he’s making a case for it. There is determination in every line of his body and fire in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” James says, sincere. “I don’t have that power.”

“I need –”

“I don’t think anyone has that power,” James says, the interruption gentle, “but if someone does, it’s not going to be me.”

This is when the man becomes a curveball: instead of continuing to shout, or repeat himself, or just trying to insist, which most people do, he leans back and breathes deeply and _apologises_.

“Sorry,” he says, as James tries to get his head around this development. He can probably count on one hand the number of people who have gotten over their anger that fast. “I mean,” the guy continues, “I worked in retail for a while, shouting at you’s a shitty thing to do, but I just – my ma – I was always sick as a kid, but I was never meant to die before her, y’know?”

“S’alright,” James says, because he is used to drawn-out anger at this point, more often than not with himself as the target, and he understands it, has become rather skilled at creating rooms full of breakable things for people to take their emotions out on. The ones who end up in his inn, after all, are the ones who aren’t settled enough to move on; they’re the ones who need an outlet. He doesn’t quite understand this development.

“It’s almost worse ‘cause it wasn’t sickness that killed me anyway,” the – the newcomer says with a thin, unamused smile. “Plane crash.”

“Guess that’s one way to go,” James says, because he’s willing to bet this guy will appreciate humour instead of pity. He’s gotten much better at dealing with people now compared to when he’d been given the bar, when he’d been trying to comfort others so soon after being returned to himself. He’d felt like he fumbling everything, and looking back on that time with the knowledge he has now, he has to admit the feeling was accurate. Sure enough, the smile opposite him widens.

“Yeah, guess so,” the guy says. He seems fairly inclined to talk, but James is already slightly afraid of how much he _wants_ to talk to him, just on the basis of a few kind actions. He’s rescued by the opening of the door again, and takes the opportunity to go comfort a small child with perhaps slightly more relief than he should, leaving blue eyes behind.

When he next looks around, the newcomer is no longer at the bar, and a few more seconds of scanning shows him talking gently to one of his fellow souls at a corner-table. It gives James time to relax behind the bar, to pretend that those fiery blue eyes hadn’t been captivating enough for the guy to be dubbed Blue Eyes in James’s head, and that the man they belonged to was just – someone new, and not particularly noteworthy no matter how unusually thoughtful he seemed to be. Lots of people were thoughtful. Lots of people _are_ thoughtful. It’s not something to go and get attached to someone for.

Blue Eyes seems to have kept an eye on James, though, because almost as soon as James has resettled behind the bar Blue Eyes breaks off his current conversation and makes his way over to James. His smile when he comes over shouldn’t – be that arresting. “Hey,” he says. “So I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself last time. Steve Rogers,” he says, offering a hand.

“James,” James says, taking it. It’s certainly not the first time he’s given his name, and it’s not the first time someone’s eyes have swept over him and liked what they’d seen, apparently including the metal arm, which he himself hasn’t ever quite been able to get past. It’s not even the first time someone’s brushed a delicate finger over his wrist when they shake hands. It is the first time in around thirty years, probably, that James has to take a breath, that he doesn’t detangle their hands and put some distance between them immediately. His arm floods through with warmth and he could swear that those blue eyes have burned the air from his lungs, when Steve finally is the one to pull away.

“So how’d you die?” Steve asks, and raises an eyebrow at James’s open mouth. “Fair’s fair, isn’t it? Or, sorry, is it rude to ask –” and just like that, he goes from confident to apologetic, which is just – more good things about him that James doesn’t need to know. Like the fact that he cares about how _James_ died.

“Um,” James says, “I mean, not really, it’s not really rude, just maybe third-date stuff –” he’s a disaster, fuck, “but, um, I was shot. In the forehead.” He demonstrates with an abortive gesture to the place in question.

“Oh, wow,” Steve says, and then, “I can’t decide if that’s better or worse.”

“I knew her,” James says, and can’t help the way his body leans slightly over the bar. Steve’s blue eyes just stay locked on his, kind and open, and it’s been so long since someone has looked at James with this kind of focus that it’s making him a little bit foolish, scraping long-held secrets out from where they’re lurking in his heart and spreading them out on the shining countertop between him and Steve for inspection. “I know it sounds weird, but I was glad it was her.”

As well as he might listen, Steve does not have much to say to this. James does not blame him; he cannot think of much anyone could say in response to that either, and ducks his head, trying not to let the flush of embarrassment crawling down his chest to show on his face.

“Sorry, that was – I’ll just –” he murmurs helplessly, and goes to move away, already planning to have a stern talk to himself about keeping his distance from souls passing through, no matter how attentive or focused or open they are. He is a lighthouse here, and he knows that, he does, but it’s easier to remember that when others treat him as such.

“Hey, no –” Steve says, because clearly he has no intention of making James’s life easier. The way his fingers fall onto James’s metal wrist so easily makes any and all thoughts James might possess scatter helplessly. “I mean,” he continues, and lets go of the wrist. It instantly yearns for that warm firm grip again, which doesn’t make sense, it’s _metal_ , it doesn’t have sensation, or desire, “you can go, I didn’t mean to grab you, but just – thank you for telling me. And talking to me when I acted like an entitled customer looking for a refund.”

James smiles, pushing down on the impending panic rising up his chest. “It’s what I’m here for,” he says instead, and withdraws with a smile he hopes isn’t too obviously strained.

The next maybe-day or so is a unique exercise in being pulled in opposite directions: it’s his job to go to Steve and talk him through whatever’s holding him back, but James doesn’t think he has ever been this viscerally aware of how much he _wants_ to go talk to Steve, how afraid he is that the more he finds out the more he’s going to want Steve to stay. And then there’s that unwise part of him that he still hasn’t figured out how to manage properly that thinks it wouldn’t be a bad thing at all if Steve stayed, that wants to talk to Steve about utterly mundane things and pretend this is a place he doesn’t have to leave.

And Steve only goes and makes all of that worse, when he sits at tables and talks gently to some souls and angrily with others, wild gestures and spit and vinegar that can turn to quiet thoughtfulness when his partner needs it to. He’s kind, that much is abundantly clear, and passionate, which is even clearer, if possible, and James doesn’t spend the spare time he has watching those blue eyes spark. He _doesn’t_.

This is his job, he reminds himself in as stern a tone as he can manage, on what might be a third day or third week. He’s really bad with time. Either way, Steve hasn’t even been here for long. It’s completely illogical that James already wants him to – stay, or whatever. He can be professional about this.

“So,” he says, and ignores the temptation to go around the bar and sit right next to Steve, choosing instead to keep the safely solid table between them. “What’s holding you back?”

“Holding me back?” Steve repeats, looking mildly offended.

“Yeah, I mean –” James ducks his head, “this is a liminal space. Some people can go straight to the crossing place, but some have something – holding them back, tying them to their lives.”

“And they come here?” Steve asks, and at James’s nod, continues. “And then what?”

“I help them move past it,” James says. “And when they want to they can continue to the crossing-place.”

“That sounds lonely,” Steve murmurs. James tries not to react.

“Sometimes,” he says instead, because nobody who is kind enough to think it and bring it up would be convinced by a denial. “I’m used to it. I like it here.” It _was_ lonely, but there was no point in telling that to a soul who’d have to move on, eventually. There was no point in making things more difficult for them. 

“That’s not –” Steve says, and sighs again, lung-emptying and surprisingly forceful for someone so small. “How’d you get here?”

“I died,” James says, even though that’s definitely not the question Steve wants answered. “But we’re meant to be talking about you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, morose again. He drops his gaze to stare at the table, traces a finger over the surface in a nonsensical pattern. “Guess I just wasn’t ready.” The look he casts James then is a mixture of nervous and daring and defiant, and James has had long practice in knowing when not to push.

“You’re in good company, then,” he says, and tries to move away while Steve looks around at the colourful group in the room.

“Oh, no, don’t go –” Steve says as soon as he turns back and notices. “I mean, you can if you want, but I don’t think I can stomach more watching you sulk between conversations,” he says. James should absolutely move away (and, apparently, evaluate his resting facial expression), but Steve’s smile and hopeful eyes are already proving to be a weakness. He lingers, and Steve presses his advantage. “You got a last name?”

“Barnes,” James acquiesces, and resettles on his seat.

“James Barnes,” Steve says. He sounds supremely satisfied about it.

“Steve Rogers,” James replies, and it makes Steve laugh. James tries not to feel too accomplished, and mostly fails.

“Steven Grant Rogers, actually,” Steve says, and looks at James from under his eyelashes. “You got a middle name?”

“We’re really getting into dire straits here, if this is where the conversation’s going,” James says, which is utterly a mistake.

“Oh, now I have to know,” Steve says with entirely too much glee, and exaggeratedly rests his chin on his hands. “Is it terrible? It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“Not that bad –”

“So you’ll have no problem telling me, right?” When James can’t think of a suitable response, and has spent several seconds opening and closing his mouth, Steve wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll just start guessing, if you want. Is it James again? James James Barnes?” He frowns. “I swear I know bad names, but just…none of them are coming to mind. Algernon? I feel like Algernon’s a pretty pretentious name.”

“Listen, if Algernon’s the best you can do –”

“I will _keep guessing_ , jerk,” Steve promises, and Bucky absolutely believes him even before Steve starts listing off names – “Chad? Cleveland? I knew a guy called Cleveland once. He changed his name to Cassidy.” James makes no movement. “Really, jerk?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised and a smile at the corner of his mouth. “That’s how this is going to be?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James says, and after a pause adds, “punk,” to return the name-calling favour. He has to fight to keep a smile off his own face.

“There was a guy called Dusty who worked at my company, too,” Steve continues. “It wasn’t short for Dustin or anything, his name was just Dusty, which was unfortunate. Were your parents hippies or something? Is it something like Lovechild? James Lovechild Barnes?” 

“It’s Buchanan,” James says at this point, to avoid further suffering. Steve practically lights up at the acquiescence, and then lights up even further when he makes the connection James has been dreading.

“James Buchanan like the President?”

“Maybe,” James says, and shrugs expansively when Steve gives him a wide-eyed disbelieving look. “Listen, I don’t know what my parents were thinking either.”

“Incredible,” Steve murmurs. “I’m gonna start calling you that. Buchanan.”

“Don’t you dare,” James says.

“I’ll make it a thing.”

“It’s not going to be a thing,” James says. He nearly follows it up by saying that Steve’s going to be leaving too soon for it to be a thing, but that’d probably make the stubborn punk stay longer.

“Fine,” Steve sighs. “Fine. We can compromise –”

“Oh, we can, can we –”

“I could call you Bames,” Steve offers. “Juchanan. Chanan.”

“ _No_.”

“They do kind of sound like ship names,” Steve acknowledges. “The full Buchanan is probably classier.” 

“God, why is Grant such a sensible middle name?” James asks the ceiling. The smile on his face makes his cheeks ache.

“I kind of like Chanan,” Steve offers, because he’s a little shit. “Like a loose cannon, explosions –”

“I’m not a cannon! That’s a terrible name –”

“That’s a great name –”

“For fuck’s sake, even my sister’s naming skills at four years old were better than yours are now, and she’s been dead for decades –”

“What the fuck did your sister call you that was better than Cannon?” Steve demands. “I call bullshit.”

“It’s _Bucky_ ,” James says. Even as he says it he knows it’s probably dumb and a mistake, but in the next instant that stupid bright grin makes its way right back onto Steve’s face and he can’t bring himself to regret the sharing of this particular fact.

“Bucky! I take it all back, your sister is superior in all things and especially the naming of brothers,” he says, somehow sounding like he’s absolutely taking the piss and completely sincere at the same time. Then he offers a hand, and says, “Hey there, Bucky. My name’s Steve Rogers,” because he is a _little shit_.

James points at him and tries not to feel like a Bucky, because memories or no, that’s not going to be a thing. “That’s not a thing.”

“We’ll see,” Steve says, smug as all hell, and shakes the pointed finger.

“If I ply you with alcohol,” James starts, “will you forget this ever happened?” He even waves a particularly nice bottle of gin around in the hopes of gaining an affirmative answer.

“Not a chance,” Steve says. “Besides – oh, actually, how does this work? Do I still have ulcers? Asthma?” He casts the bottle a slightly suspicious look, as though it is about to jump out of his hand and attack him.

“Well, you left your body behind,” James says. This explanation is familiar to him, something else he does for a lot of the souls who pass through. It grounds him in the reality of the situation: Steve is another of those souls, and he is passing through. “And souls are more responsive to your mind than bodies are. So the simplest answer is that you’re in the state you think you’re in. If you don’t think you have asthma, then you don’t. But if you start thinking that you should, you’ll probably start having an asthma attack.”

“So,” Steve says, “if I drink that alcohol, and then I spend the next half hour waiting for my stomach to act up –”

“It’ll almost definitely act up, yeah,” James says, when Steve trails off. Steve’s eyes flick to James’s metal arm, and maybe it’s because James knows Steve won’t ask that he volunteers the information. “I had this when I died.” Steve’s eyes flick up to meet James’s gaze, and his cheeks stain red as they drop again. “I mean, you could probably make yourself one if you were determined enough,” James continues, “but don’t, y’know, ask me how I got mine.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Steve says.

“I know,” James admits. “That’s why I told you.” Steve looks up at him at that, a little startled, and James tries to pretend that he’s unaffected by this. “You’ll get better at controlling it,” he continues. “And once you have enough practice at believing you don’t have health problems your soul will follow.”

“That’s good to hear,” Steve says.

“So, gin?” James asks, offering the bottle again and pretending that he isn’t watching Steve’s neck when the other man tips his head back to laugh. “Sure,” Steve says. “Bottoms up.”

“I can leave you to it, if you want,” James suggests, almost hoping that he will be taken up on it even as he really doesn’t want that, but Steve is shaking his head before the statement is even complete. 

“No, stay,” he says after his mouthful of gin and the subsequent face he makes at the taste. “If you want, I mean.” 

“Yeah,” James murmurs, soft, even as he pinches his own thigh and reminds himself that Steve is going to leave soon. It is unwise for stationary objects to grow fond of things that move.

“Tell me about the bar?” Steve asks. “What’s it called?”

James does nothing but stare, for a few seconds. “You know,” he says eventually, once he notices Steve growing a little twitchy at the admittedly slightly alarming non-response, “I don’t think the place has a name.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “No?”

His mouth is still open and James knows his next words are going to be _why not_ so he butts in pre-emptively. “I never thought about – I mean, it’s always been the liminal space to me. I guess I just never got around to it.”

“And you wouldn’t have for a while, either, from the sounds of it,” Steve teases.

“What did I ever do without you?”

“Who knows?” Steve asks, and continues on very seriously. “You know, since I’m such a life-saver and bar-saver and all, I think it’s only fair that the bar gets named after me.”

“Oh, naturally,” James says. “The Rogers Establishment has a nice ring to it, I’d say.”

Steve shoots him an impressed look over the rim of the glass that he’s been holding and not drinking out of since that first sip. “Fancy,” he says approvingly. James reaches out and downs the gin Steve is clearly not going to drink.

“Hey,” Steve protests half-heartedly. “I was going to drink that, Buck.”

“Were you?” James asks .

“Okay, no,” Steve admits. “But that was very rude and I want my objections taken down.”

“Noted,” James says, just as Steve yawns, wide and jaw-cracking.

“God, I’m dead, why am I so tired,” he mumbles, and quite frankly the disgruntled look on his face is adorable, which is exactly the kind of observation James should not be making. “Got any beds?”

“Nah, that door labelled bedrooms is just there for shits and giggles,” James says dryly, but he makes his way to Steve’s side of the bar to show him the way. “Right through here,” he says. Steve would probably be totally fine with the directions that James gives most other souls – keep walking until you find an open door, and close it – but, well. James forcefully removes his mind from the topic as fast as it had gotten there.

“Where d’you sleep?” Steve asks as the two of them walk down the corridor. It’s dimly lit, and the light is doing flattering things to Steve’s face, which James thinks is immensely unfair.

“I don’t,” James says. “Like I said, you can train your body out of needing things here, and I’ve been here a while. I like to be at the bar in case I’m needed.”

“Huh,” Steve murmurs, and then once they reach a room with an open door he exhales in surprise. “Woah, that’s not – I don’t – it was definitely full daylight, when I was in the bar.”

“I changed it for the bedrooms,” James says. “Night sky’s better to sleep under.”

“How?” Steve asks, and he sounds completely fascinated, like he truly does want to hear about James poking and prodding at the rooms, over the course of years and decades, until he was satisfied.

“Tell you later,” James promises. “Once you get up.”

“Hmph,” Steve mutters, but he must be tired, because he goes straight for the bed and curls right up, looking deceptively small, all drooping eyes and soft lines. “Talk t’you later,” he mutters, and is either out like a light or doing a very good job of pretending.

“Night,” James says, and closes the door behind him as he leaves the room before he can convince himself to do something utterly foolish like stay with Steve, curl himself around that small body and press their bones close together.

Steve is a little bit intoxicating because he pays attention, because he laughs and asks questions and gives nicknames. That’s all it is.

~*~

The girl opposite James is purposefully blasé as she gets up to walk towards the door in what is, all in all, a fairly unsuccessful attempt to cancel out the last hour and a half of spilling out her heart. James can see that her fingers are still strangely coloured from the twisting of hair over fingertips during conversation, but if she wants to pretend nothing has happened James is perfectly willing to go along with it.

“Hey,” she mutters, more towards the grain of the tabletop than at James himself. “Thanks.”

Then she’s whirled away and slammed the door shut. James is still behind the bar, mouth open around words he didn’t know how to say and won’t ever get the chance to, now.

“Maria,” James says to the woman who’s been standing behind him for the last five seconds, once he’s regained use of his mouth and neatly compartmentalised any remaining thoughts about Abigail. “I need to know if there’s WiFi past the crossing.”

“Oh lord,” Maria says, because for people who are mostly in charge of a distinctly non-Christian type of afterlife she and Melinda and Nick – and even James himself, really – certainly like taking the lord’s name in vain. At this point all James can do is tut slightly and shake his head, more to tease Maria than because of any actual objection to her words.

“Oh lord?”

“We’re getting _millennials_ , everyone’s going to hate them,” Maria moans, and sits down next to James.

“People always hate on the next generation until the generation after them come along,” he says. “You’ve had this crisis every ten or so years.”

“I still hate it,” Maria mutters. “Got any cognac?”

“Always,” James says, reaching under the table to grab a bottle which hadn’t actually been there. 

“Yeah,” Maria says once she’s downed the majority of the glass. “You can tell people we have WiFi past the crossing-place.”

“You have no idea how many folks I have managed to get to the crossing place based on the faint possibility of WiFi alone,” James says, casually skipping past the probably embarrassing number of years where he’d had no clue what the fuck it was, and Maria groans.

“To be fair, WiFi is pretty great,” a voice says from behind James. He probably shouldn’t be able to tell who the voice belongs to, considering they’ve only had like two conversations.

“I should head off,” Maria says with another nod to James. She never likes to interact with the souls who are still in James’s inn, and he’s always assumed it was a casualty of whatever she does at the crossing place, though she’s always been vague about it and he’s never asked.

“Where does that door go?” Steve asks as he takes a seat and watches Maria leave. And, honestly, the sight confronting James right now is utterly unfair, because Steve is all sleep-soft and a little confused, those blue eyes a little hazy. James wants to know what kinds of things he could do to make those eyes even hazier.

“That’s the one that’ll take you to the crossing place, as long as you want to get there,” James says, and at Steve’s blank look he can’t help but grin. “Coffee?”

“Oh god yes please,” Steve says in a rushed exhale. His eyes focus in fascination as James calls over a mug from the second-top shelf and it’s filled to the brim with coffee. “So,” he says, after a shot of milk and a small bag of sugar, both of which helpfully spill themselves across the countertop to make Steve aware that he can use them. “How are they getting to the crossing place from that door when I swear it’s the door that led me here from some godforsaken pile of snow?”

“The trick to getting there is wanting to go,” James says. “That door will lead you to where you want to go. And most people in here want to go somewhere other than the crossing place, which is why they’re here in the first place.” It is always heartwrenching to watch people open the door, trying so hard to want to go to the crossing place and having to slam the door shut because it showed them their old house or their partner or their parents.

“So as long as you want to go to the crossing place that’s where it’ll take you,” Steve confirms, and James thoroughly ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach because he already knew that everyone moves on, damn it.

“That’s right,” he says, and covers his feelings up with a smile. “Think you’re ready to try?”

“What if I don’t want to move on?” Steve asks, fiddling a little with his coffee cup.

“That’s what I’m here for,” James says, and grins even though he really doesn’t want to have to start trying to convince Steve to leave. He doesn’t know whether he can be trusted with that. “Besides,” he adds, “who the fuck wants to stay in here forever, huh? It’s a room and a few bedrooms.”

“You seem to be doing just fine,” Steve says. “And I like it here.”

“Not past the first few months,” James says. “Plus, I have to say I like the place, it’s mine. You’re under no such obligation.”

“I kinda am,” Steve says. James can just about hear the comment about him being here from Steve’s eyes when they flicker over him, wants to shy away, but thankfully the moment passes and Steve straightens. His voice is only slightly teasing when he says, “It’s me the bar’s named for, after all.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it,” James snaps, and fuck, fuck, his voice was far too sharp just then. He turns and grabs himself a cup of coffee, black and bitter, and forces himself to drink it just like that. “I’m sorry –” he starts, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Of course you’re – I mean, you’ve been here forever, and I’ve only – I mean, you’ve every claim to the place, it was incredibly rude of me to –”

“No, no, it wasn’t that,” James says, and drops his gaze to the countertop because he doesn’t know what to do with those wide earnest eyes. “The bar likes being named after you, I can tell.” But he really should have thought before he’d snapped, because he doesn’t think he can say _don’t act like you’re never going to leave, because you are, and that hurts too much already_.

After a few seconds of awkward silence between them, Steve takes a breath and offers James a smile and a fresh conversation starter. James _really_ doesn’t understand him. Fuck, James doesn’t understand himself, with any other person he’d have left them so they could both calm down, and yet here he is. “So, I might’ve been a bit out of it, but I think I remember you promising to explain the night-day thing you’ve got going on between rooms?”

“Yeah, I did,” James says. “Um, basically, I can,” he wiggles his fingers, “control the rooms? When I signed on to be the guardian of the liminal space, it was like…I don’t know. The closest thing I can relate it to is getting a new limb? New connections, new movements. And the more I practice the more shit I can do. Like night-day views out of windows.”

“That’s incredible,” Steve says. He’s leaning forward and the tiredness is gone from his eyes, which is really more likely to be due to the coffee than the conversation. James tries not to think about how captivating they are and only half succeeds.

“It’s harder when there are people in the room, which is basically all the time,” he says. “But that’s why it’s easy to make new rooms for people. And it’s easier for people to sleep with a night sky, so.”

“That’s kind of you,” Steve murmurs, and James is – definitely not imagining the look in blue eyes, the way Steve is biting his lip. James wants to bite it _for_ him, which: no, stop.

He should talk Steve out of this, or at least discourage him. It’s not that difficult, theoretically. It isn’t the first time he’s been looked at the way Steve is looking at him. He’s good at gently being uninterested, and even better at gently encouraging people to the crossing-place. But now – he takes stock of his position, and he’s basically mirroring Steve, leaning against the bar, a hand propping up his chin. His eyes have slid down to Steve’s lips. The uninterested signals are, he is forced to conclude, refusing to cooperate.

“So,” he says, forcing the conversation back to where it’s supposed to be, “have you thought about it anymore? Why you’re not at the crossing place?”

Steve shrugs, the light in his eyes closing off a little and his gaze flickering down at the tabletop instead of James. James’s traitorous heart twinges, a little, at that.

“I guess I just wasn’t ready to die,” he says evasively, eyes shifting and shoulders tense. “Wasn’t, y’know, expecting it.”

James should push. James _has_ pushed, in other cases. But now all he does is nod, and let Steve’s shoulders start to relax.

~*~

So: that is the beginning. And, well, it’s not exactly normal for people to stay for extended periods of time, but it’s not particularly abnormal, either. A handful of the souls who pass through James’s liminal space – or the Rogers Establishment, he guesses he should start calling it – are there long enough to have seen Maria on two occasions, which adds up to about two or three years. James’s longest visitor had sat at the end of the bar for a solid seven years, which, it turned out, was long enough to get pretty fucking good at chess and almost as good at containing his laughter at sly jokes. James has never admitted to the way he spent years after Erik’s departure turning to the end of the bar to share some witticism or make a move.

Because James has no chill, at some point he manages to poke the liminal space into making an ornate copperplate sign behind the bar that reads _The Rogers Establishment_. It makes Steve laugh for so long that he has to sit down, and then he spends the next five minutes heatedly arguing for it to be taken down, which makes the effort utterly worth it.

“You picked it, you’re stuck with it,” he says cheerfully, and Steve groans.

“You’re such a goddamn asshole _jerk_ ,” Steve snaps, but he’s glowing slightly and the scowl he’s trying to stick on his face keeps sliding off, so James feels justified in not taking him too seriously.

“You’re a punk,” he responds. “Coffee?”

Steve spends three hilarious seconds clearly debating whether to accept coffee from a jerk or suffer for a point, and eventually mutters, “Fuck you, yes.”

The thing that ends up driving James’s – thing – for Steve out of hand is the sketch he’s handed, one day. Before that point, Steve had been – well, caring and funny and attentive, so not terribly like the other souls, but James could _pretend_ , at least. When Steve slides a sketch across the table one day after coming out of the bedroom corridor – and the plain unfairness of that is a complete other discussion, because those gentle hazy eyes and sleep-soft posture really shouldn’t be allowed near James – it’s something undeniable. Concrete observation, and kindness, and gentleness, poured onto paper. For _James_ , of all people.

“It’s beautiful,” comes out of a slightly clogged-up throat, and he brushes a gentle finger on the air above the paper, a little too scared to touch it properly. “Can I – can I put it up?”

“Put it – oh,” Steve blushes, and it’s incredible, and also not what James should be thinking about.

“I don’t have to, if you don’t want me to,” James says, and Steve meets his eyes, smiles. That expression is something incredible, every time.

“No, it’s yours, I’m giving it to you, you do whatever you want,” Steve says. “I just, y’know, can’t help thinking about how rough and terrible it is, now –”

“Oh, don’t give me that, it’s not – it might be rough for you, but I like it,” James says. “It’s beautiful. It looks gentle.” And it does, with the way it’s drawn, every line pencilled in and traced over lightly, shapes taking form out of wispy pencil-strokes.

“Well,” Steve says. The blush on his face has only grown more pronounced, and it’s still glorious to look at. “Thank you. And, I mean, I guess this is motivation to make the next one I give you even better, huh?”

“If you’d like,” James says, unable to turn this down, and Steve nods. When James next sees him it’s with a pencil and sketchbook in hand, and a smile on his face even as he starts bitching about the light source in the room. “Look, I’m not saying it makes no sense for the room to be lit up by that foggy window, but it _makes no sense_. I keep trying to draw in the fog, and then I have no discernible light source, and everything looks weird –”

“I’m _terribly_ sorry that my foggy window doesn’t quite fit with your artistic sensibilities,” James says, and hastily avoids the sketchbook-slap Steve halfheartedly tosses his way. “The fog’s just easy to maintain,” James shrugs from a safe vantage point. “People get bored of a landscape.”

From this point onwards, Steve seems to operate on the understanding that he has free reign to give any sketch he wants to James. He also, having been dead for a much shorter time than James, has a much better sense of time to go with it, and promises James that the sketches are given once a day, like clockwork.

“Had to take a lot of meds at different times in the day, and such,” he explains to James once, pencil furiously scribbling out the features of the fairly impressive liquor cabinet James has built up. “Gave me a good sense of time even against normal alive people now.”

“You still take them?” James asks.

“Nah,” Steve says. “Too much trouble.”

James’s collection of sketches grows extensive very quickly – some of it scenes from memory or clearly fantasy, dragons and mermaids, but most of it realistic, iterations of the bar, the bottles, some of the other souls, the door, which had frightened James slightly, had him tense and waiting for Steve’s departure, but then it’d been back to the bar and some of the people in it. There are even a few impressively detailed drawings of the floor and ceiling. Those more than anything seemed to signal Steve’s boredom with the place, which is – the last thing James wants, really, selfish or not – so he pokes the liminal space into giving Steve a little more, charcoal and paints and watercolours.

“How does all this art stuff get into my room?” Steve wants to know at this point, which James has to admit is fair enough.

“I poke the Establishment,” James says, slightly evasively. Steve frowns.

“How did you know I liked art? I mean, you know now, but at the beginning –”

“It’s not that concrete,” James says. “It’s more – I want people to have the things they want. And the rooms are – me, a little. So they try.”

“That’s kind of you,” Steve says, eyes soft in a way that makes James want to step close and shy away all at once.

“And, I mean,” James says, deflecting, “your last drawing was of the floor, and the one before that was the ceiling. I thought you might be getting a bit bored.”

“Hey, don’t knock my artistic choices,” Steve says. “You have a uniquely unremarkable ceiling. Of course I had to draw it.’

“Oh, of course,” James agrees. “Well, now you can paint my uniquely unremarkable ceiling.”

“What, and you’d still like that?” Steve asks, and James lets out a scoff before he realises that it’s a serious question.

“Of course I would,” James says, and watches in disbelief as Steve’s blush deepens a little. “Steve, come on. Your drawings are incredible, and you give them to me. How could I not like them?”

“I mean, fairly easily, I’d imagine,” Steve says. “But I’m glad you don’t. And, uh –” he rushes on, before James can formulate a response to this, “– thanks for the new stuff.”

“Anytime,” James replies automatically, and tries not to worry about the fact that he means it, genuinely and sincerely and truly.

And then, eventually, Steve starts asking more out of James. Or, not quite. James started giving more to Steve. It was only good manners, he kept telling himself. If Steve gifted James a painting of a dog and told him about how he’d gotten Cap from a shelter after a successful heart transplant, the it was only fair that James reciprocated with the story of the one dog that’d come into the inn and made the place it’s fuckin’ home.

“I didn’t know dogs could come in,” Steve says in response to this particular story, which is almost funny because he’d barely even reacted to the some-guy-named-Wade-threw-a-katana-at-a-Colonel story.

“Well, neither did I, and it’s pretty fuckin’ rare,” James says. “The way Maria tells it they usually just skip right past the crossing-place. But this one wanted its human so much that it found its way in here, and Maria had to go get the human for this big fuck-off dog.”

“And did she? Find the dog’s human, I mean,” Steve asks at a pause. “C’mon, Buck, I’m invested now.”

“Well, yeah,” James says. “And I’ve never seen a dog so happy as that one when they came in.”

“That’s nice,” Steve says, eyes distant. And then his gaze sharpens again, lands on James. “Is that a happy story?”

James shrugs a shoulder and avoids Steve’s too-sharp gaze. “I mean, sure,” he prevaricates. “Of course it is.”

Steve doesn’t look particularly happy at this answer, but he lets it slide. James can’t help but suppress a sigh of relief, because, well, it might be a happy story for the dog and its human, but it wasn’t too great for James, who had been hit by grief on two fronts. The first one, obviously, was the immediate loss of the dog being gone, when she had been such a placid and comforting receiver of pats and giver of licks. The second front had been quieter but no less painful, a slower dawning ache that crept over him as all the souls who had also patted the dog left, and then all the people who had been told about the dog also left, and then it had just been James who remembered, alone.

Until Steve, apparently. And one day Steve was going to leave and that was going to hurt more, but until then – James could ignore that, maybe. Possibly.

~*~

It takes James a year to break. They know this because a particularly confused man in a Santa outfit stumbles through the door clutching the elbow of a woman in a spectacularly ugly Christmas sweater, and Steve manages to extract the year from them. James had wrapped an arm around him, then, because Steve had died just after Christmas, on the flight back to New York from his mother’s.

(Honestly, James will think later, it’s a miracle he lasted the year at all, with Steve a near-constant lively warm presence by his side. Sometimes he could swear that Steve glows, and that the Establishment responds.)

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve says, some time after the two Christmas souls have come in and left again. “Come here.”

“Come where?” James asks, but he humours Steve when the other man says nothing and only tugs him down the bedroom corridor and into his bedroom. This is, as it turns out, the wrong decision, because as soon as the door is closed Steve has wrapped his arms around James’s waist, that beautiful smile and those beautiful eyes beaming up at him.

The room is snowing, and it’s _warm_.

“You remembered,” James breathes, putting a hand out. One of the snowflakes lands on his hand, a gentle feather-soft thing that has no particular temperature. James had told Steve, once, about liking snow but hating the cold. It had been a while ago, and yet. Steve found the time and the effort and the willpower to impose the room into doing this, just for James.

“Of course I did,” Steve scoffs. He pulls James over to the bed and hands him a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of gingerbread, because apparently he’s thought this through to the point of perfection.

“This is perfect,” James murmurs, as Steve tucks himself in close to James’s body and wrapping them in a colourful Christmas blanket. It’s utterly absurd, sitting inside a small room drinking hot chocolate while snow falls around them, but Steve is warm and the drink is sweet and the blankets around the two of them form a sort of cocoon, protective and gentle. So it’s absurd, but it’s also perfect. It’s something he could grow used to, something he could learn to spend time wanting.

“Good,” Steve says, almost viciously self-satisfied. “You deserve perfect.” And, at this point, James might have stopped fighting statements like this but he has not stopped hoarding them, each one a gem among stones in his memory. He suspects, though, that even if Steve didn’t have to leave he would still treasure them.

“My ma used to make cinnamon gingerbread,” James says, sort of suddenly, before Steve even gets a chance to sit down on the bed.

“Oh?” Steve asks, going still. James knows why – all the things he’s shared have been inn-time memories, his human life not generally being appropriate for consumption, even if Steve knows the bare bones.

“Yeah, she – she didn’t even like making them, so she’d only bake it on days that it snowed,” he says. Even now, he spends so little time properly thinking about his family that even the act of remembrance feels new, like he’s just been given this memory. “And my sister always stole some off the oven rack to hoard, and then she’d forget about it and months later we’d find dried out cinnamon gingerbread in suspicious places.”

“Like where?” Steve asks, leaning against James and blatantly unremorsefully stealing both food and drinks from James.

“Oh, I dunno,” James says. “Between the couch cushions. Under her mattress. In the top shelf with the fine china.”

“Bet your mum was pleased about that,” Steve says, and then sputters as a snowflake lands on his nose and appears to fizzle out. “That _tickles_!” he exclaims indignantly at the ceiling, which seems only to accelerate the production of snow.

“It does what now,” James says, and sticks his hand in the snow that’s piled up around his legs to verify this. It does indeed fizzle out against his hand, and a startled laugh bursts out of his mouth at the sensation.

“ _Good_ ,” Steve says, and then pointedly refuses to blush when James raises an eyebrow. “You need to laugh more,” he shrugs. “I’m just stating a fact.”

“Oh, well, if it’s a _fact_ ,” James simpers, and retaliates with his own handful of snow from the floor. Steve shrieks and nearly falls off the bed at the sensation.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, when James cackles at him without mercy.

“Sure thing,” James agrees, possibly too easily. Steve blinks up at him, and then a smile tugs at his mouth, sly.

“Like me enough to finally get off your ass and kiss me?” he asks. When James can only look down at him, dumbfounded, he adds, “It’d be an excellent Christmas present, y’know, if you need more motivation.”

“Um,” James says, and the smile starts to slip off Steve’s face, which – he hates that looks, can’t quite stop himself from bringing a hand up and trying to smooth out that wrinkles that are forming on Steve’s forehead. “I should get back to the bar,” he tries, and by now Steve is properly frowning.

“No – Buck, stop it,” he snaps, grabbing at James’s wrist. “Bucky, I am _tired_ of watching you not let yourself be happy.”

“That’s not –” James says, pulling himself back towards the door.

“That’s exactly what you’re doing, and I’m fucking sick of it,” Steve snaps. He even looks gorgeous when he’s angry, James can’t help but notice. It’s unfair.

“I,” he says, without really knowing how he’s going to follow it up. “It’s my job,” he settles on weakly, in the end.

“Jobs aren’t meant to be 24/7,” Steve murmurs. He gets off the bed as well, comes slowly towards James like he’s approaching a cornered animal. “Jobs shouldn’t make you so unhappy. Bucky, baby, please.”

 _Baby_. The endearment makes James pause, makes him warm again. “C’mon, Steve, don’t make this worse.” That at least makes Steve pauses, makes concern flicker through his eyes.

“Worse?”

“You know you have to leave. I know you have to leave. Don’t –” _make me love you_ his mind says. _Too late_ , he returns. “Make it harder.”

“Oh, I can make it very hard,” Steve promises, and leans towards James. And, despite everything, James laughs, lets the mood lighten. He should let Steve fall into the wall to make a point but he catches Steve, in the end. Of course he does.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, and his tone is a lot fonder than he’s given it permission to be. “But, Steve –”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “C’mon, Buck, just don’t. I don’t want to leave.”

“You know you have to move on,” James says. It’s still snowing, and he’s holding Steve in his arms, both of them braced against the wall. “Everyone has to.”

“Only if they want to,” Steve says. “I don’t want to.”

“I’m not allowed to keep souls,” James says.

“You’re not keeping me,” Steve says. “I’m staying. I want to stay. I – Bucky, I don’t want to leave you.”

“Sure,” James says on a sigh, as his metal hand moves up to slide through fair hair.

“I _don’t_ ,” Steve insists. “You have to – you have to know that –”

“I do,” James says, because he does believe Steve. “I know. I just – don’t think it’s allowed.”

“Fuck allowed,” Steve says. “Kiss me.”

“Bossy,” James says, and his voice is warm. He uses the hand in Steve’s hair – his _metal_ hand, and Steve is still so trusting – to tug his head back, just gently, and Steve complies, bares his throat and looks up at James with all the trust in the world.

“You know it,” he says, with a smile that wobbles. “Bucky, please –”

And James does, then, leans down and kisses Steve, because he can and he wants to and he wishes he could believe Steve. Steve makes a soft, sweet noise in his throat and kisses back, pushing himself further into James, twisting like he can twine their souls together.

“I love you,” Steve says, once they’ve pulled away from each other. “Fuck it, I’ve been here a year, I love you.” He reaches up, touches James’s lips. “You’re still so kind,” he murmurs, and shakes his head at the slight crease that forms on James’s forehead, touches it gently, smooths it back out. “You’ve been here so long, and had so much taken away from you, and you still give,” he says. “Buck, you’re so kind. You deserve the world.”

James is so aware of all the places the two of them are touching: the lean line of Steve’s warmth against his front, the hands curled possessively around his neck, the lips that are so very gently brushing his jawline. Steve has always been open with his touches, but this – this makes James feel cracked-open and exposed. This makes his heart heavy and his stomach tingle. He leans down, lets his lips touch Steve’s temple, breathes in. Relishes the way Steve shivers.

“I love you too,” James says, because it’s true, because not saying it won’t lessen the hurt of it. Steve just looks at him, kiss-red lips curved up. “Was this a seduction?” he asks, bringing his metal hand down to Steve’s neck and putting his flesh hand in his hair instead because he wants the more vivid sensation of strands between his fingertips.

“Did it work?” Steve asks, and laughs when James gives him a sardonic look. “Alright, dumb question. But, no, to the first question. I mean, I hoped, but –” he pauses, blushes a little, but forges on, “– I just wanted to do something nice for you. Especially when I found out it was Christmas. You should have all the nice things.”

“Y’know Christmas doesn’t really mean much to me anymore, right?” James has to check. “What with being dead for fifty years, and all.”

“Shut up, don’t ruin my romantic gesture,” Steve says peacefully, arms still around James. “Plus, I saw how much you liked the snow, and the food, don’t lie.”

“Okay, but snow isn’t a Christmas thing –”

“Listen, Barnes, you can stand there complaining about Christmas or you can kiss me,” Steve says, looking up at James with those big blue eyes. “Which is it gonna be?”

“Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” James says, and pulls Steve closer to him, trying to kiss the smug grin off his face. It’s probably impossible, at this point, but James doesn’t mind trying.

~*~

Kissing Steve is _wonderful_ , without doubt. James would also put forward an argument, however, that being with Steve is even better. Steve can do something as simple as catch his eye from across the room and affection will course through James, fierce and wonderful. But that’s not all Steve does, and everything makes the bottom of James’s stomach fall out. Steve stands next to him and holds his hand as souls leave, reminds him to come back – not just to himself, but to the inn and the other souls in it and to Steve as well. James doesn’t want to say companionship is the solution to everything, but it makes things so much better.

“You’re – better. Happier?” Steve asks him once, making it a question, and James nods.

“I have an anchor,” he says finally, once the point for explanation has probably passed them by. Steve shifts closer, brings James down for a kiss. And, of course, James follows.

James can’t exactly start hoarding Steve away in the name of their relationship. And to be fair, he doesn’t want to. It’s just – incredibly tempting, when Steve is sleeping and Maria comes in, to forget that, and immediately start thinking about how he might be able to keep Steve out of the main room, possibly for the rest of eternity.

“Are you all right,” Maria says, not quite a question, looking a little askance at James’s drawn countenance.

“Yeah, of course,” James says. “Why – I’m fine.” _Why wouldn’t I be_ is something people in denial say. “I’m fine.”

Maria raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. James doesn’t quite let out a sigh of relief when she (finally, it seems) leaves, and an instant later Steve is out in the bar.

“What the fuck?” he asks, which is fair enough. “My _door_?”

“I’m sorry,” James says, having poked the door into the wall when Maria came in, to prevent Steve coming out and raising suspicion. It might have been the wrong thing to do, but in his defence, he’s panicking here. “Maria came in. We haven’t. Uh. Discussed that yet.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Oh.” And, unexpectedly, he leans forward to hug James. James can’t help but be reminded of a bird, quick movements and small fragile body. But the frown Steve is wearing as he pulls back is fierce, and images of small birds shift to include species like eagles and hawks. “We have to face them sometime,” Steve says, tone unexpectedly gentle for the fierce expression on his face. “And I still have no intention of leaving.”

“I can’t exactly hide you away,” James has to admit, and Steve nods.

So the third time Maria comes in since Steve’s visit he’s right in the middle of the room chatting to one of the souls, and there’s really no way Maria can _not_ see him, bright as he is.

“Barnes,” she says when she gets to the bar, which, already, bad sign. “Do I know that face?”

Third visit means it’s been between four and six years since Steve’s come in. Both options are distinctly too long to be explained away easily. And Maria has a memory for faces.

“Possibly,” James says, and goes for broke. “He might have been here last time.”

“He was here five years ago, and extolled the virtues of Wi-Fi,” Maria says, shoulders tight. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Um,” James says. He’s so focused on Maria that he doesn’t even notice how close Steve’s come until an arm’s slipped around his waist and Steve presses himself into James’s side. James closes his eye briefly. He’s not dramatic enough to ask for the sweet release of death but, well, he’s coming pretty close. Steve’s going to be the end of him. Or the end of them, which is nearly the same thing.

“Maria, isn’t it?” Steve asks, in a tone so brightly polite it makes James’s teeth ache. The way his arm is wrapped around James’s waist leaves no room, really, for imagination. “Pleasure to meet you. Bucky’s told me good things.” 

“Bucky has, has he?” Maria asks, hard. Then she sighs, seems to drop the demeanour. “James, come on. You know you can’t keep souls. That’s one of the cardinal damn rules.”

“He’s not keeping me,” Steve snaps. “I want to stay. And another one of your _cardinal damn rules_ is that you can’t kick me out.”

“I don’t want it to get that far, but don’t fool yourself,” Maria says. “We can do a lot of things James can’t.”

“Don’t fucking _threaten_ us,” Steve says, all fluffed up and indignant like a cat.

“I could resign,” James says, quiet. Maria and Steve turn to look at him, but while Maria mostly looks shocked, Steve looks like he wants to plant a kiss on James then and there. He shrugs. “The paper I signed. It only said I was the guardian of the liminal space until further discussion.” He stops, and says carefully, “I’m not, currently, but I could – initiate a discussion. And resign. Or just,” he nods at the door, “leave.”

“You’re serious,” Maria says. “You’re – fuck. Good lord.”

Steve’s hand slips down to squeeze James’s, and somehow he manages to take a breath at the motion, takes courage from it. Maria’s eyes linger on the gesture.

“Why?” she asks. Steve looks at James, raises his eyebrows, tilts his head: a _how d’you want to play this?_

“I want him to stay, Maria,” James says quietly. Saying ‘I love you’ to Steve had been easy, was still easy. Saying it to someone else sticks in his throat. “I want him to stay, and he wants to stay. It’s not that complicated.”

“Not until you’re in a liminal space, where souls can’t stay,” Maria agrees.

“He’s stayed,” Steve says. “Why can’t I, with him? What’s wrong with having two innkeepers?” Maria doesn’t say a word, and Steve steps forward, vicious. James puts a hand on his shoulder, tries to pull him back.

“No, keep going,” Maria says, and something about the way she says it terrifies James. It seems final, like it seals Steve’s future, even though he cannot pin that sense down to a particular expression or gesture or movement. “Anything else you want to get off your chest?” 

“Fuckin’ – yeah, sure, alright,” Steve snaps. He’s practically giving off sparks, eyebrows drawn together and eyes bright, and it’s honestly unfairly captivating. “I was going to let it go, because he asked me to, but where the _fuck_ do you get off treating Buck the way you have? He’s been here half a century. It’s his fuckin’ job to care about the souls who come in here, and then they all _leave him_ , because this is a liminal fucking space.” He pauses to draw a breath, and James can’t take his eyes off him. Partly because he’s captivating but mostly – mostly because he’s terrified that between one word and the next Steve will disappear. “At best, you’re all ignorant uppity _fucks_ who sit wherever you sit and judge souls and don’t give a shit about the people working under you, and at worst you willingly exploited someone with self-esteem issues the size of a goddamn trench to make your jobs a little bit easier, and either way it’s a _shitty_ thing to do.” Steve stops, breathing heavily, red as a tomato. James could swear in that instant that he’s physically incapable of looking away from Steve. Very gently, he touches his metal hand to Steve’s cheek, and slightly less gently, Steve presses back into the contact.

Maria stays silent for what seems like an eternity and an instant before speaking again. “That sounds like something that should be said to a wider audience,” she says. And then, “Can I borrow Steve for a bit, James?”

“Why?” James snaps, more harshly than he’d intended, trying to pull Steve behind him. The only problem with this plan is that Steve has planted his feet firmly and is also simultaneously attempting to shield James.

“Every soul needs to be judged,” Maria says. “That’s still paramount. But after that – he can appeal to come back.”

“Don’t play,” Steve snaps.

“She’s not,” James says. As infrequent as Maria’s visits may be, they’re on good enough terms that he fancies himself able to tell when she’s being honest.

“I’m not,” Maria agrees. “I won’t lie; this was supposed to be a punishment. It’s why we didn’t tell you about the companionship allowance.”

‘Why now, then?” Steve asks, still bristling but undeniably more friendly.

“Half a century is a long time,” Maria says. “And you want to stay.”

“Yes,” Steve says. His voice comes out in a frantic rushed exhale, and James loves him for it.

“Come with me to the crossing-place, then,” Maria says. “And appeal to come back.”

Steve looks at the hand Maria offers and then back at James. “I’ll come back,” Steve says, and flings himself at James, fierce bones pressing into James’s body. James can feel Steve’s face buried in his neck, as though he wants to print an impression of himself there, as though he wants to meld the two of them together.

“I love you,” James murmurs, trying not to get his hopes up. Steve dashes this completely by pulling back and using a hand on James’s jaw to manoeuvre him into making eye contact.

“I love you. And I’m coming back, Buck,” he murmurs, and James can – feel something inside him break, a little.

“You’re coming back,” he whispers.

Steve nods, and then he pulls away, and James is cold. Maria takes Steve by the hand and drags him out of the door, fast enough that Steve can only throw a single glance backwards, and James is cold. 

~*~

Time runs strangely in the Establishment. Or perhaps time runs strangely outside, and only makes sense inside. James tries to make a clock, and then he stops trying, because counting the hours will only make them pass by slower. It is easy and hard to continue doing his job – easy to immerse himself in stories and souls and lives, and harder to pull himself back every time, without Steve. Harder to stay positive. He clings tightly to the hope Steve forced into his heart.

About half a round of souls have gone – half, that is, of souls who knew Steve, who asked after him, or noted his absence – it finally happens. The door opens, and Maria comes inside. The handful of souls who remember her last visit startle. James’s heart has a few instants to start to fall, and then the door is positively knocked off its hinges and Steve nearly falls over a chair as he runs into the space.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he yells, and James – doesn’t quite know what he does, he loses a bit of time, but he thinks he vaults over the countertop, or perhaps it parted for him, because one moment he’s dreadfully far away from Steve and in the next he has that small fierce body wrapped up tight, hearing babbled frantic, “I love you,”s and hands are on his face guiding it down for a kiss.

“Incorrigible,” James mumbles against Steve’s lips, and delights in the feeling of laughter between them.

“You love me,” Steve says, once he pulls away.

“I do, I do, you know I do,” James babbles, heart light. His cheeks ache.

“Thank you, Maria,” Maria says, from beside them. “Oh, it’s no problem, James. Happy to do it, really.”

“Thank you, Maria,” James echoes, a little sheepishly. Steve only turns his head and grins, unrepentant and exhilarated.

“ _Thank_ you, Maria,” he says, with a tilt to his voice like he’s said it before. Maria grins at the pair of them, unrestrained for once.

~*~

“Was it – what was it like?” James asks. Steve shrugs, the moonlight from the window gilding his bare shoulders silver.

“Like your experience,” he says. “I stood in front of them, they asked me a few questions, they put me in a room, took me out, asked me some more questions. I got to come back.”

“Really,” James says, tone going flat.

Steve sits up, blanket falling down to his waist. “They showed me past the crossing-place. Is that what you want to hear?”

“And you still came back,” James says, trying not to be too blatantly inquisitive, raising a hand to trail down Steve’s body as a slight distraction. Steve shivers, catches the hand, kisses it.

“It kept shifting, re-forming. It’s supposed to be everything you want, but it couldn’t be you.”

“Oh,” James says. It’s the only thing he can say. His throat is clogged and he’s perilously close to tears. “Oh.”

“So I get to stay,” Steve says. Shamelessly, he flops back down and drapes himself over James’s body, leaning into the hand that comes up to steady him. “I get to stay as long as I want. As long as you want.”

“Always, then,” James says. Against his chest, Steve’s smile tickles as it grows.

“’Til the end of the line, Buck,” he agrees, and manages to bring his lips together to press a kiss above James’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> grand hotel was, btw, just about the first all-star cast piece that hollywood put out and certainly the first in sound, starring greta garbo, the barrymore brothers, joan crawford, and wallace beery, among others. it was - and still is - acclaimed for its artistry, what with the whole working around the new sound tech thing, and then it won the oscar for best picture in 1932. so it was a big film and i just like thinking about bucky being a film enthusiast but even if he wasn't tl;dr grand hotel was a pretty big film and it's plausible that he watched it
> 
> anyway, my tumblr is [here](layersofsilences.tumblr.com) XD


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